The arena wasn’t huge, but it was packed. Every seat buzzing, the air thick with the click-snap rhythm of ping-pong balls and the roar of a crowd that cared way too much.

And then there was him.

Marty Mauser.

The coat was gone — instead, a crisp polo tucked into athletic pants, his hair a little too wild for the precision of the game. He stood at the table like it was a stage, like the spotlight followed him instead of the ball.

You’d never seen someone play like that. Fluid, cocky, every movement halfway between performance and war. The crowd ate it up — every smirk, every little bounce of the ball off his paddle.

You caught yourself leaning forward in your seat.

He noticed. Of course he noticed. Between serves, his eyes cut through the crowd, landing on you like a spotlight. He grinned — quick, sharp, private — before spinning the ball on his fingertip and tossing it into the air.

The return was brutal. His opponent barely kept up. The crowd erupted, but Marty barely looked at them. His focus flicked back to you, chest rising with steady breaths, mouth curling in a silent that was for you.

He thrived on it — the noise, the attention, the way your gaze lingered. Every point he won, he made sure you were watching.

And when the set ended, when the umpire called his lead, Marty didn’t raise his arms like the others might. He just lifted his chin, sweat dripping down his neck, eyes still locked on yours from across the room.

After the whistle, the crowd swelled around him, people shouting his name, reaching for his hand, but he cut through them — not looking at anyone else until you finally stepped down from the stands.

“You came,” he said, still out of breath, racket dangling at his side. The smirk softened into something warmer.

“I said I would,” you teased, brushing a curl off his damp forehead. “You nearly broke your opponent in half out there.”

“That’s what happens when I’ve got the best distraction in the room,” he murmured, voice low just for you.

And in the chaos of the tournament, with cameras flashing and fans shouting, Marty bent down and pressed his forehead to yours — sweat, racket, spotlight and all. Like the game was over, but the real win was standing right in front of him.